


Clipped Wings

by allofthefandoms



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Clint's a mutant, Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthefandoms/pseuds/allofthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Clint had vanished on what was supposed to be a routine mission about a year ago, Phil had worked every mutant case he could get his hands on, hoping against hope to see those glittering gold eyes looking back at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clipped Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ParkerStark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParkerStark/gifts).



> Done for chainedhawk over on tumblr and her beautiful Clint. It got really out of hand, but I hope you like it.

It was both better and worse than Phil had feared. He had been sent under cover to break up a suspected mutant slave ring, and seeing the warehouse full of cages made his stomach twist. And he couldn’t even do anything about it. Not yet, at any rate.

Ever since Clint had vanished on what was supposed to be a routine mission about a year ago, Phil had worked every mutant case he could get his hands on, hoping against hope to see those glittering gold eyes looking back at him. Every time Nick handed him a file, his face was drawn and his expression sympathetic. But Phil wouldn’t give up, even though Clint’s file read “MIA, presumed KIA”.

And so it had lead him to this smuggling ring, surrounded by the very sort of misery and suffering he had joined the army to prevent.

“Good batch this time around?” Phil asked softly to a man beside a cage containing a mutant that seemed to be more lizard than man.

“First time here?” he replied, a light smirk on his face. When Phil nodded, the grin grew. “Well, this will certainly be an interesting auction. One of our stock has a bit of a…reputation that’s been getting around.”

“Oh?” Phil said with a single raised eyebrow.

“He’s thrown fits at three auctions,” the man replied. “Utterly feral. Appealing but dangerous.”

“And you haven’t broken him yet?”

“Doesn’t seem like we can. He’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen before.”

“Can you take me to his cage?” Phil asked, wanting to get a closer look in case this was anything SHIELD would want to keep tabs on rather than just put through traditional rehabilitation.

“He’s got a foul mouth on him,” the man warned.

“I’ve had worse,” Phil said, fighting to keep the low simmer of interest out of his voice. The man shrugged, and took Phil into a back room, unlocking the door with the small key hooked to his belt. 

The smell was the first thing that reached Phil’s nose and he almost retched before swallowing to get himself back under control. It smelled like every torture chamber Phil had ever been in, the potent mix of shit, blood and fear making the very air feel thick and heavy. The man Phil was with seemed unfazed, and Phil followed suit, not letting the revulsion show on his face. If he was going to be invited back, he had to keep up his façade of pleasant indifference. There were only a few cages in this small back room, and all but the farthest stood empty. The figure in the far corner was huddled with their back to the door, completely naked and covered in dirt and filth. Phil could count each rib and each knob of his spine.

“Sure it’s a mutant?” Phil asked, not seeing any obvious mutation. 

“Oh yeah,” the man said, grabbing what looked like a cattle prod off the wall. “You don’t come by eyes like that naturally.” There was a sick churn of hope in Phil’s stomach that he had to squash before he got to excited.

“Let me see,” Phil said, voice deliberately flat.

“Turn around,” the man ordered the figure in the cage. There wasn’t even an indication that he had heard.

“Told you,” the man said with a shake of his head. “Stubborn as they come.” The man poked the figure with the prod, which hadn’t been switched on. Still nothing. The sear of flesh just added to the miasma in the air.

It took 5 tries before the figure turned around, latching onto his captor with painfully familiar golden eyes.  
Phil knelt down in front of Clint Barton, heart in his throat as he prayed that Clint wasn’t so far gone that he wouldn’t know him. But much to Phil’s relief, when the eyes latched onto him, there was a spark of desperate recognition and the fight drained out of him.

“Look at that,” the man said with a shake of his head. “Maybe we’ll be able to break him yet.”  
“Think there’ll be a sale?” Phil asked. “Or is it just for spectacle?”

“Why? You interested?”

“I like them fiery,” Phil replied, turning so the man wouldn’t see the reassuring hand signals he sent Clint. “Besides, you don’t find a face like that every day.”

~ ~ ~

Phil scanned the crowd as the auctions got underway. There were a few familiar faces, people SHIELD had tabs on for various illegal activities including a known HYDRA affiliate who seemed to be interested in mutants with offensive powers. It was a veritable parade of misery, mutants of all kinds being forced on the make-shift stage in shackles and chains. Almost none of them fought at all. Those that did were quickly subdued. One of the auctioneers was clearly a mutant with a gift of suppression, used to control mutants with unpredictable or violent powers. Once each mutant had been sold, they were herded off to what seemed to be some sort of holding cell.  
Clint was sold last, and the stubborn defiance was back in his eyes and stance. Seeing him under the harsh fluorescent lights just made it worse, each bone casting a stark shadow on too pale skin, marked by a rash of burns and badly healing wounds.

“I am sure most of you have heard of this one,” the auctioneer said with a smirk. “Sold back to us twice because he was too much for…less experienced owners. So if you’re looking for a challenge this is your buy.”

The bidding boiled down to Phil and two other serious buyers. But Phil wasn’t worried about being outbid. After all, whatever he spent would be seized when the ring was raided.

“$35,000, going once, going twice, sold!”

~ ~ ~

It wasn’t until Phil was back at his safe house that he looked at Clint with anything more than mild detachment.

“Fuck,” Phil swore, hands hovering a few inches from Clint’s face, too scared to touch him after what he had gone through. Phil had no idea how long Clint had been held captive, and he didn’t want to trigger him, or make him uncomfortable. But suddenly he had an armful of former archer, and when Clint began to sob, Phil wrapped him firmly in his arms, rocking him back and forth murmuring softly.

“Never stopped looking for you,” Phil said softly, hands in Clint’s long and greasy matted hair. “They said I should give up, move on, but I knew I’d find you. You’re safe now.” Clint was trembling and could barely keep his feet, so Phil steered him to the bed, letting him crumple onto smooth, soft sheets.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Phil said softly, letting Clint burrow against his warmth. 

An indeterminate amount of time later, Clint’s crying eased and his grip on Phil wasn’t quite so hard.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Phil said softly, helping Clint into the bathroom and sitting him down in the tub. Taking down the showerhead, Phil got lukewarm water running, and began to gently clean Clint off. As the dirt and filth washed away, the horrific injuries became even clearer. Clint was emaciated, not a shred of muscle or fat anywhere to be seen. There were weeping blisters, most likely from burns caused by the cattle prod, and Phil knew many of them would scar because of the poor treatment Clint had received. His back had peeling scabs, and as Phil began to gently scrub them clean, a few broke open again, tainting the water pink. When Clint’s body was clean, after two of three wash downs, Phil took a razor to the mess of hair on his head, shaving the mats and snarls away. When Phil was done, Clint looked like he had walked out of a picture of Holocaust survivors.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Phil said, getting one arm under one of Clint’s and scooping him up. It was sickeningly easy to pull him to his feet.

~ ~ ~

Clint dozed while Phil made his report.

“I found Agent Barton,” he reported softly.

“Shit, really?” Nick said.

“It’s hard to tell how long they had him,” Phil replied. “Could have been a month, 6 or the whole year he was missing. I just don’t have any idea and I’m not going to press him for information just yet.”

“You have what you need to finish the mission?”

“I…” Phil paused, not sure what mattered more, helping Clint or finishing the mission.

“I’ll send someone else to finish it,” Nick replied, taking the decision away from Phil. “You look after your husband.”

~ ~ ~

Clint doesn’t talk to Phil for almost two days. He does as he’s asked, eating what Phil brings him and sleeping when asked to. But mostly he just stares at nothing, no  
matter how gentle and coaxing Phil is. As such, the first things out of his mouth catch Phil completely off guard.

“I was careless.”

Clint’s voice is a mess, a little more than a rasp that Phil can barely understand. But it’s Clint, and Phil drops what he’s doing and goes to sit beside him.

“It’s not your fault,” Phil murmured, hesitantly reaching out for Clint.

“I let myself get compromised because I was stupid.”

“Clint—“

“They slipped something into my drink, Phil. Like I was a stupid high school girl at a frat party. Woke up in that dingy cell. No idea how long I was in there.” Clint gave a weak cough, throat dry. Phil scrambled to get him a glass of water.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Didn’t come on purpose,” Phil confessed. “Found you totally by accident busting up that ring.” Something in Clint’s eyes flickers and Phil prays to God it isn’t  
disappointment. 

Clint remained tight lipped about what had happened to him, but his body tells Phil a truly horrifying story. The starvation is the obvious one, joints and bones just wire frames for loose and sallow skin. The weight loss has left Clint shaky and easily chilled so unlike the brash, strong man Phil had known.  
And then there are the wounds. Badly healed scars, festering and scabbing burns and gashes. Phil changed the bandages three times a day just to keep them from sticking. Every touch drew a whimper or a hiss, and Phil can only be thankful that the wounds haven’t gone septic.

“How are you feeling?” Phil asked after the third day, still worried about Clint’s silence.

“Wanna go home,” Came the soft reply. “See Tasha and the others.”

“Ok,” Phil said softly. “We can do that.”


End file.
